The Misplaced Rifles
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: Sharpe, Harper, Sweet William, two companies of the 60th Royal American Rifles, and fifty odd marines are raiding the French countryside south of Bordeaux (See Sharpe's Siege). While ambushing a Crapaud supply and reinforcement column, the smoke of gunfire lifts to reveal no dead enemy but the unfamiliar landscape of a strange country - Harry Turtledove's Videssos.
1. Chapter 1

The volley, stinging from the flank, flayed into the first infantry ranks, and Frederickson was bellowing commands as though he held more men under orders. The French were glancing nervously towards the beechwood as Captain Palmer's fifty Marines now loosed their third volley down the road straight at the slowly forming enemy companies. Minver's men, slower to deploy, fired next from the right, through the hedgerow. The mist remnants were thick with smoke now. The stench of blood mingled with powder-stink.

"Stop loading!" Sharpe shouted at the Marines. All the noise caused the pain in his skull to throb terribly, yet his instincts were still able to tell him the battle was won. The French, though outnumbering Sharpe by three or four to one, were dazed, disorganized, and shaken. One more push and the enemy would break. "Front rank up! Fix swords!"

"Bayonets, sir," Harper muttered. Only Green Jackets, who carried the sword bayonet, used the order to fix swords.

"Bayonets! Bayonets!" he quickly bellowed. "Captain Palmer! I'll trouble you to go forward!" Deadly steel was quickly added to the heavy sea borne style muskets of the Marines. Satisfied, Palmer looked over at Sharpe and nodded. "Advance. At the double! Advance!"

The two ranks stepped lively, pushing through the cold, powder filled January air of Gascony. Sharpe and Harper fell in beside the Marine Captain at their rear. If the enemy held, then the Marines would be slaughtered. He shivered inside his grey coat hoping that as they stepped out of the smoke that any surviving French officer wouldn't see how feeble the assault truly was.

"Fire!" Frederickson yelled. Nearly seventy rifles rippled in unison out of the beechwood to Sharpe's left. Good, Frederickson had understood all and was supporting him, adding to the chaos. He hoped Minver would quickly follow with his own volley.

Suddenly the Marines in front of him were stumbling and slowing, though not a shot had been fired at them. "Charge!" Sharpe roared, encouraging the men to face down the unseen enemy line. He marched out of the grey haze. "Ch …." He didn't finish his repeat of the command. Now he understood why the Marines had stalled. The enemy was gone, as were their wagons, horses, packs, and dead. The road no longer even existed. Instead, only a grassy sward a hundred feet long stretched out in front of him until it ran into the edge of a forest. A forest that had not been there during the morning as they waited in ambush. Sharpe shivered, despite noting the temperature to no longer be below freezing. "Cease fire! All Rifles! Cease fire!"

"Bloody hell," Palmer swore.

"God save Ireland," Patrick choked out.

* * *

Few of the Rifles, nor the Marines, slept much that night. The afternoon had been spent fruitlessly looking for anything familiar from their previous day's march: no farm on the other side of the hedgerow, no toll house and river, no villages, no roads. The search had revealed only a few trails. So after a warm meal of boiled beef from their gunny sacks and a few snared hares, they had laid down on boughs stripped from nearby trees or simply in their great coats which thankfully were no longer desperately needed for warmth. With heads propped up on packs as the first stars began to flicker out, later than they should for January, the first moans of terror had started. Harper's taunt of "Don't bloody unman yerselfs!" had calmed them just enough as the illegible heavens wheeled into better view. Eventually, as men will to tame the unknown, they began drawing patterns in the new constellation and naming them: the Lancer, the Tower, the Squid, etc.

The naming went on through the night as new stars rose to replace their setting fellows. Finally the east at last grew pale. Or at least what they guessed must be east, for the sun rose and was simply the sun. And with it the forest around them ceased to be a single, frightening, dark shape; becoming trees, brush, and shrubs. The returning light revealed them to still be oddly familiar; perhaps similar to that which they'd marched through at times in Spain and Portugal, but nothing like what they'd seen so far in southern France.

Despite the madness, Sharpe had not lost all his senses, and picquets had been set to keep watch on the edges of the ad hoc camp set up by the two veteran companies of the 60th Rifles and the fifty Marines under the competent enough command of Captain Palmer. Hagman came out of the gloom cast by the trees into the growing pink light. "Visitors comin', major," the old poacher called out softly. "Maybe a dozen on horse.

"Bring the other picquets closer in Hagman, but keep out of sight," Sharpe commanded as he got to his feet. "Rifles. Marines."

Sweet William got his near seventy men formed up quickly on one side of Sharpe and Lieutenant Minver did the same with his company of fifty odd on the other side. And behind, the muskets of the Marines formed the third leg of their protective triad. Patrick strode up beside his friend and unslung his heavy seven shot piece. The big Irishman had a grin on his face, but Sharpe could see the unease beneath which it covered up.

Several men flinched as an arrow flashed high up into the dawn sky and then came thudding down near the remnants of one of the night's campfires. Luckily no one got an itchy finger and pulled a trigger. The Rifles were a veteran lot and the Marines blooded enough even if they'd found no bodies after the previous day's phantom battle.

Sharpe and Harper exchanged surprised glances. "They bloody red injuns, Sir?" Harper snickered.

A challenge soon followed in some unknown tongue.

"Hail the woods!" Sharpe cried out. "Come out and be recognized!"

Less than a minute later a figure pushed aside some bushes and strode purposefully towards them. From the man's clothes, Sharpe instantly knew he wasn't a French officer, private, or even a local militia type. Parts of him were dressed more like a bandit or a Spanish guerilla, though his bearing loudly proclaimed him a leader of men; an aristocrat perhaps.

"He's got balls if he thinks we're going to pay for those rabbits we took from his estate," Harper groused, clearly coming to a similar conclusion as Sharpe as to the newcomer's nature. The stew had been tasty last night despite, though six rabbits hadn't added much overall to the bellies of a hundred and seventy five men.

The mysterious lord stopped well short of Sharpe and well within range of any archer or archers who were protecting his back. He folded his arms across his solid looking chest and waited, all the while eyes passing back and forth over the near hundred men of the Rifles gathered in the glen. He was lean, of middle height, and appeared in his mid-thirties beneath sun-darkened olive skin and just starting to salt dark hair.

"Bloody hell, he thinks he's a god damned knight," Sharpe muttered.

Harper whistled in appreciation, for it wasn't the two vicious scars on his face that made the man stand out. No it didn't. The man wore a shirt of linked mail that reached halfway down his thighs. And atop his head sat an iron pot, that connected to the shirt with more linked iron over his neck.

"Well, we might as well go speak with him then. You coming, Captain Frederickson? My parlez-vous ain't as sweet as yours."

"Yesh, Major," his friend answered with the lisp that always came when he was prepared to fight. Off had come his eyepatch and out the set of false teeth he wore. "But whatever they cried before didn't sound like any language I ever heard before. Maybe it was Basque," the highly literate captain suggested.

Harper, as Sharpe's Sergeant Major and personal shadow, came along too. The trio stopped a good ten feet from the medieval warrior. "Major Sharpe," he announced, jerking a thumb at himself. "Captain Frederickson. Sergeant Major Harper."

The man pointed at himself. "Neilos Tzimiskes." And then blathered a couple sentences.

From growing up as an orphan in mostly the river parishes of Southwark, as well as shipping out of England more than once, Sharpe knew the country of origins for many languages, if not in fact knowing how to speak them. "How's your Greek, Captain?"

"Poor," Frederickson responded. "But it isn't Greek exactly, as Portuguese isn't quite Spainish. Here goes, hope I don't accidentally insult his mother. ποια χώρα είναι αυτό?"

"Videssos."


	2. Chapter 2

More Greek sounding gibberish passed between Frederickson and the scar faced man. Sharpe tried to follow along, but the stabbing pain behind his two day old bandaged forehead had returned, distracting him. He barely picked out "England," "France," and "Greece" interjected into William's queries; all of which only elicited negative grunts or shakes of the head. "America?" "India?" "China?" "Van Diemen's Land?" By their tone, the returning words needed no translation, for they obviously meant no, no, no, and no. William left off the polite interrogation, and reached under his hat to scratch the stubble on his near bald head. Tzimiskes rolled his shoulders a bit in what might have been a shrug and then started to rattle off his own questions.

Harper lightly nudged Sharpe. "All this talk is making me a wee thirsty, major."

Sharpe smirked, deciding a nip of something might ease the throbbing in his skull, so he called out. "Companies, at ease! Not the picquets!" he quickly added. His ears caught the sound of rifles and muskets being lowered to rest butts upon the dirt. "Sergeant Rossner, kindly supervise the issuing of a rum ration for everyone. And be sure the first sip goes to our guest here."

The jibber jabber trailed off as Corporal Harris carefully marched four small bumpers out to the parley and handed them out. The man sniffed at his a moment, then smiled, catching the undeniably strong odor of alcohol. Sharpe returned the smile. "To King George," he toasted, not knowing what else to say.

"Wherever that crazy German farmer is," Harper muttered grumpily.

In answer, Tzimiskes suddenly spat on the ground, lifted both arms in the air, and recited something. "Praise be to Phos," Frederickson translated. "Must be his King or god." Only then did the man dressed as William the Conqueror take a sip.

"We might as well do the same," Sharpe suggested.

"I bloody well will not praise some pagan god," Harper sputtered.

"Stiff necked papist bastard," Sharpe retorted.

"When in Rome, Shergeant Major," Frederickson advised much more politely. "When in Rome."

So all three men also spat on the ground before they took a sip of the body and soul warming rum. Tzimiskes nodded his head in approval before turning back to the woods and shouting out. Soon enough another man, this one a bit younger, stepped out. He too wore a crazy medieval costume. And over his shoulder he carried a leather sack that he handed to the first. The new man's name turned out a mouthful at "Proklos Mouzalon."

Tzimiskes pulled forth dried apples, figs, olives, smoked pork, and hard yellow cheese from the sack. Traveller's fare. Food fit for men marching to war. He also produced a small flask that contained a thick, sweet wine. The bounty was shared with the trio of riflemen. This time only Mouzalon, the newcomer to the parley, spat before drinking.

"Glad we don't have to do that with every sip," Sharpe commented wryly, the food and liquor having putt him and more importantly his head wound in a better mood.

"While thesh buggers've never heard of Greece, their food and wine, let alone language, tell me otherwise, Major," Frederickson pointed out.

"We're more lost than Jonah inside the Whale, sirs," Harper said. "So what in Jesus' name do we do?"

Having been lost more times than he carried to remember, Sharpe thought that an excellent question. However he lacked a satisfactory answer. "Survive," he answered simply. Once safe, there would be time to worry about when or whether they'd ever be able to rejoin the army; if he would ever see Jane's sweet face again; if Harper would ever hold Isabella and two week old Richard again. He stifled a morose sigh. "Captain Frederickson, ask Tzimiskes here if he has any ideas on where we should go?"

"Not near hish woman and children for shtarters," the one eyed Captain quipped before digging back into his school boy memories of Greek. He yammered with the two knights for several minutes before coming back up for a breath of English air. "Sheems there's a town a couple days march to the shouth where we might find lodging if the mayor is willing to take our lot in. Neilos knows we are fighters by our shpears, though he finds our lack of armor confusing."

"Spears?" Harper snorted in surprise. "Is he blind?"

Sharpe himself blinked twice hard to cover his shock, for clearly the man must've meant their rifles.

"Yes, shpears," Frederickson said knowingly. "And his people frequently hire coin fighters. If they like what they shee out of us, he thinks they might offer us a contract. Especially as he knows his Avtokrator, which means Autocrat or Emperor, plans to march to war this coming spring. He shesh its only Autumn here now."

Sharpe nodded his head, not even bothering to think about the implications of what a change to the time of year meant. The Rifles might be ugly, villainous, foul-mouthed men, but on the battlefield they were kings and victory their coin. They could fight and they could march. And if his sneaking suspicion was correct, they'd be the only ones fighting with powder and ball. God, how he'd make them pay for their service. He fought hard to keep a vicious grin from spreading across his face.

Recognizing that look of an officer being too clever by half, Harper's instinctive response was to dampen the fire before it could spread. "You can't be thinking of taking'em up on this … Major?" Harper said doubtfully.

"For now, Sergeant Major, let's just get to this blasted town," Sharpe answered. "We've only one more day's rations. We should've already been marching back to the fortress and blasted Captain Bampflyde's ships. Just like the damn navy to leave the army in a tight spot," he snarled. "Captain Frederickson, tell Tzimiskes if he'll guide us, we'll gladly go to this town of his."

* * *

The picquets had finally been called back in and Mouzalon with a few other riders already sent ahead to prepare the town called Imbros for their arrival, when Sharpe called the hundred and seventy four men together. "Lads, I don't need to tell you we're more lost than two virgins fumbling around in the dark on their wedding night. If we can find a chance to get back to the army, we'll take it, no matter what. But till then we need to stay alive and it looks like we may have found a friend here in this Greek Videssos noble Neilos Tzimiskes. There's a town not too far off we can march to, and we'll all feel better with a warm roof over our heads and some hot food in our bellies."

"And wine and women," a voice with a yankee doodle accent cried out, identifying it as Private Taylor, the only actual American enrolled in either of the two companies of the 60th Royal American Rifles Regiment, who made the quip.

"Only if they're willing," Sharpe growled dangerously. "We treat this country as friendly territory. No stealing, no poaching, no prodding the farmer's daughter. Any man caught doing so will be lucky if I bother to take the time to hang him. We don't want these Videssosians treating us like the guerillas treated the French in Spain. Savvy?"

"We don't have much silver, Major. How we is gonna pay fer foods and stuff?" another man asked.

"Smart question, Higgins. Their Ava … tokator…"

"What the hell's a Avi-whatzit?" someone yelled.

"Their King," Sharpe hadn't wanted to say 'Emperor,' which is what William had translated that mouthful to mean, for after years of fighting old Boney, he wasn't about to refer to their future possible employer by that title. "hires foreign troops for both garrison duty and to fight wars. So if nothing better shows itself, I suppose we'll just have to do that then." He waited for any of them to complain about violating their oaths to King George, but none did. It shouldn't have surprised him for the vast majority of his men were Irish, German, Spanish, criminals who'd enlisted one step ahead of the sheriff, or so poor back in England that the deadly life of a private on the Peninsula had been a step up. "And one last thing, maybe the most important, as mad as this may sound, myself and Captain Frederickson suspect that these Greek sounding bastards have never seen gunfire before. They think your rifles are funny looking spears. So we march with bayonets fixed and only pull triggers when an officer tells you to. Understood?"


	3. Chapter 3

About a half day's march to the east by narrow, twisting paths through stands of hardwoods, chestnuts, and pines brought the Rifles, and slower Marines, out of the forest and into the start of settled, or at least pastured, countryside. The land quickly became fairly open with rolling hills, and before too long farmhouses could be spotted. More than one raggedly dressed farmer drove off his livestock at the first sight of the near two hundred soldiers slogging along in column on what could now generously be called a road. Tzimiskes would send off one of his half dozen riders to reassure them, but not a one after receiving the reassurance ever stopped his flight. Farmhouse doors and shutters were slammed tight too.

"A land that's seen its share of suffering, it has, Major, if they're so skittish," Harper commented.

Sharpe simply grunted agreement. Marching had brought back his piercing, spiking headache.

"You should have your wound looked at tonight, sir. Wouldn't want it fester or worsen." The large man responded, knowing his commanders moods so well.

As he was the only one of the men sporting a wound, well other than the blisters all the soft footed Marines were undoubtedly now sporting, Sharpe supposed he shouldn't feel so black, but he couldn't help it. "How's your tooth, you lying Irishman?" he snapped.

The Regimental Sergeant Major smiled broadly at the insult. He'd used his badly inflamed mouth as a medical excuse to slip away from the Colonel newly appointed over Sharpe to lead the South Essex, now called the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers; and then, with the connivance of Hagman, Harris, and Sweet William's blind eye, hid away with the 60th Rifles until they were on the beach below that French fortress. The idea of his friend going to war without him had gnawed at his Catholic soul. And so apparently had it with Sharpe's wife Jane, who'd been the one to suggest the ruse he'd taken. He prodded a thick finger into his mouth and grimaced. "Still hurts a mite, Major."

"I'll look at your tooth first tonight," Sharpe declared grimly.

"Oh no need for that, sir. Your wife gave me a jar of clove oil. Does wonders does it."

At mention of Jane, Sharpe grim look turned to an outright scowl. "Captain Frederickson," he called.

The half German, half English officer soon made an appearance. "Sir?"

"Do you have any pincers, Captain?"

"Sir?"

"For teeth, William. Sergeant Major Harper's tooth is bothering him again."

"It's not so bad, sirs," Harper interjected nervously.

"I fear it might have to pulled or he'll be too weak to continue the march tomorrow."

Frederickson smiled, a fearsome sight that revealed the two fake middle upper teeth on his scarred face. He reached inside a pocket of his well-worn Rifleman's green coat and extracted a narrow pair of pliers. "I think this will do, Major. A dentist in London I'm familiar with charges nobility a schilling a tooth for the false teeth he makes them. And he'll pay a six pence for every sound tooth I pull out of a dead Frenchman."

Sharpe smiled viciously. "Really?"

"Oh yes, Major. But it must be a sound tooth. They break so easy, you understand." The Captain pivoted his hold on the pincers and then held them up to give a demonstration. "The trick is to push in and then twist as you pull back out," Frederickson explained. "Fast and with a quick turn of the wrist, thusly. And don't be losing grip of the tooth or the edges will cut into the gums. How badly are your gums swollen, Sergeant Major?"

"Sirs," Harper moaned pitifully.

"Sir! Sir!" shouts at the head of the column came. And it was quickly followed by Greek as Tzimiskes turned his mount around and started to trot back towards Sharpe. He left off his abuse of Harper and spied ahead where a solidly built stone building had come into view as the thoroughfare they marched on curved around the edge of a hillock.

"He says tis a Temple of Phos, Major. We can make camp here tonight and be assured of a hot, if humble meal," Frederickson announced, translating for their guide.

Sharpe nodded approval. He felt inside his battered coat's mended deep pocket, where he carried the last two bags of the counterfeit ten franc silver pieces Colonel Elphinstone had given him before they'd set sail on the mission. The pieces were only imitations, quality ones, of francs, but the silver at least was real. Wellesley did not want to raise the countryside of southern France against his army the same way the French army's plundering actions had created the guerrillas in Spain. So though Sharpe had been told to fight French soldiers, he was to pay the citizens when his Rifles requisitioned food and supplies. He supposed a donation tonight would be in order. Priests and pastors everywhere were much alike, lusting after coin, if not always after wine and women.

As he passed fully around the hillock, a blue-painted wooden spire with a gilded ball on top stabbed into the air from the far edge of the building's otherwise flat roof. Bald headed, bushy bearded, blue-robed men worked in the fields around their temple.

"How very Greek or even Russian of them," Frederickson commented. "I wouldn't be surprised to find mosaics tiled into the floors and walls of the place." Their guide started chattering again. "Ahhhh, Tzimiskes wants us to stop and have you formally meet their … Abbot."

Sharpe shrugged. "Rifles halt!" he bellowed. Most of the men quickly sat down on the earth, though all gave the place a good long look. "We'll spend the night here, lads! Remember, best behavior. Not that these monks look to have any women among'em." A disappointed sigh ran down the column. He didn't know about the Marines, but like him, most of the Rifles had left their women and more than a few children behind in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. The sigh told him that sooner rather than later thoughts of them would start to cause discipline trouble.

He, Frederickson, Minver, Palmer, and Harper followed Tzimiskes to the gate on the road that led down a wide path to the temple. A thin youth in blue on watch behind the wood pickets called out a greeting or a prayer and Tzimskes spat on the ground in response, as well as uttering something that included "Phos."

They all muttered "Phos" as well and spat.

The youth smiled, bowed briefly to them, and then pulled on a rope that started a bell gonging. After only a brief wait, and Sharpe wouldn't have been surprised if watchful eyes on the road had already sent warning of their coming, two men came out of the temple walking slowly, very slowly, towards them. The first was in simple blue like all the others and he swung a metal censer out of which a fragrant smoke spilled from. The other, much older and white haired – at least in the beard for they were both shaven on top too, wore a palm-wide circle of gold cloth embroidered on his left breast.

Tzimiskes bowed low to the almost doddering man and then spoke briefly. In answer, the ancient one lifted a hand into the sky before speaking.

"All blessings be upon Phos. Guests, even foreign guests, are welcome to their humble home. For Phos welcomes the weary traveler on the path of light," Frederickson muttered softly in a running commentary into Sharpe's ear. "Hhhmn, this Phos might be a sun god. T'would explain the gold gilt dome over there. Ahhhh, as there are so many of us, perhaps the stables would offer the best place for us tonight. A calf shall be slaughtered to provide us meat in the morning, but tonight he apologizes he has only a simple porridge to offer us."

The wizened fellow stopped talking and Tzimiskes looked over at them expectantly. "I think they expect a response of sorts, Major," Frederickson prodded.

For a second, Sharpe wished Hogan was here to handle this bit of 'diplomacy,' then Sharpe did what he naturally did best and simply plowed forward, damn the consequences. "Thank him, for all of us, Captain. And ask if a donation in silver to this Phos of theirs would be thought of properly."

The old man smiled and nodded. All priests were alike after all, even those on the rump end of the world, wherever that was. Then he spoke a bit more of the Greek gibberish.

"He thanks us, Sir," Frederickson translated. "And begs forgiveness that … he is too old to look after your wound, but he assures us there is a healer priest in Imbros who can look after our ailments when we get there."

Sharpe smiled. "Hear that, Sergeant Major. You've nothing to worry about. Can't say as I've ever seen a priest pull a tooth before."

"Bloody pagans," Harper muttered.


	4. Chapter 4

After seeing the men fed something more than their dried beef rations, given a few barrels of the monks' own brewed ale to quench their thirsts, and billeted snuggly in a now over bursting but at least warm stable; Sharpe, Frederickson, Palmer, and Minver had ensconced themselves in the spartan cell the Abbot had provided Tzimiskes.

In Spain, Wellesley rarely made a move without consulting Hogan first; to discover the disposition of enemy forces and what they were thinking. That often meant sending Sharpe out at the very end of the sword tip so that his friend would have something to tell the General.

This reconnaissance he would do for himself, the lads, and even the web foots. The work was slow, as William had to translate everything he asked and Tzimiskes answered, but at least it didn't appear dangerous and the mulled wine never ran out. By the time he rejoined the Rifles in the stable, his head hurt worse than ever before.

When he woke up in the morning, he found himself shivering. While his dreams had been filled with visions of Mongol looking like raiders – not that he knew what a Mongol looked like - laying into him with sabres, he doubted his chills were from fear of the baby killing Yezd. Videssos' deadly enemy, whom Tzimiskes' new emperor Mavrikilos wanted to fight come the spring, had sounded ferocious, but nothing three rounds of lead per minute couldn't stop he thought confidently.

No, Sharpe worried that either the contagion which had been running through Saint-Jean-de-Luz before he left by ship had finally settled in upon him – Jane had been shivering herself when she saw him off at the dock that wet, windy dawn – or that the wound he took storming the French fortress had turned sour. Sharpe gently adjusted the bandage on his forehead and was rewarded with a stabbing flash of pain.

"Some fresh beef, Major?" Harper asked cheerfully, bending over to offer him a warm, juicy red piece of meat right off the giant turning spit a few of the monks had been tending all night in the courtyard. It smelled good and he accepted the battered piece of tin it sat on gratefully. "Thank you, Patrick."

The big Irishman squatted in the straw beside him in response. "Are you sure that French carbine ball didn't take away some of your brains along with a bit of flesh, Sir?" he asked with a cheery grin.

"What?" Sharpe grunted as he sank his teeth into the tender piece of bloody meat.

"You callin' me by my Christian name and all. A might familiar for an officer to address one of his men that way, don't ya think."

"Piss off," Sharpe mumbled through a full mouth, glad the act of eating hid the smile that wanted to break out on his face.

"Oh I'll be takin' one of those soon enough, Major. But no hurry. I figure you'll let the lads eat their fill till there's nothing left but the marrow scrapped bones of that cow. Would be a shame to let even a wee tasty piece go to waste, it would. The 60th are veterans and the web-foots ain't so bad either, they'll all be ready to march within minutes of the last of the drippings bein' sucked down."

Sharpe nodded in agreement as he swallowed. "So they're holding up?" he asked his Regimental Sergeant Major.

"Not sayin' they ain't spooked. But they got you to see'em through, full bellies, and a hint of a safe harbor to hole up in. Their spines'll stay stiff and strong a while longer I figures, Sir," Harper said, concluding his assessment.

"And you, Sergeant?" Sharpe asked in a low voice.

Harper stood up to his full six foot and four inches of height, a frown now turning down his rosy cheeks. "Think I'll see about that piss now Major," he said and walked away.

"God save Ireland," Sharpe muttered.

* * *

Harper had been right. The men took very little time to fall into column once the last of the food went down their greedy gullets. Sharpe was pleased that as far as he knew, or the monks showed, that none of the men had gone off foolishly looking for mischief or a bit of loot during the night. He had no idea what these people used for money or how valuable a cow was to them, yet the ancient Abbot seemed amply pleased with the ten silver pieces of counterfeit francs he 'donated' the monastery as they left. At least that's the way he took the blessing of 'Phos' the Abbot gave them. Of course maybe he was simply happy the Rifles and Marines hadn't proven to be as big a pack of thieves, cut-throats, and bastards as they looked.

Quickly enough the column got back into its miles eating stride. And as happened on the previous days, the column stretched out as the Marines started to lag, unable to keep pace with Rifles. Green coats could march and they could shoot, by God, Sharpe thought on more than one occasion that day. A thought frequently followed by a question of whether God even knew where the hell they were.

As they went by a farmer's field, Sharpe spied what looked like an oversized gourd or a good sized pumpkin. "Rifles halt!" he cried. They didn't find his command unusual. He had been calling for breaks more often than normal so that Captain Palmer's foot blistered web-feet could periodically catch up. "Captain Frederickson!" he shouted. "Kindly ask Tzimskes if he could send his riders on to scout a mile ahead."

"Everything alright, Major?" Frederickson asked.

"Aye. I thinks it's time Tzimiskes had a demonstration," Sharpe answered, though truthfully he felt ill; his whole body ached and he shivered something fierce at times. Nothing he hadn't experienced dozens of times before on marches in Flanders, Portugal, or Spain. You simply kept on or you died.

Greek jibber jabber was exchanged and soon enough Tzimiskes sent off his half dozen riders. To say their guide who dressed like a knight had been dubious of the Riflemen's claims the previous night over wine would be an understatement. He had told Wiilliam it was obvious we were soldiers and not simple militia fit only for guard duty, but was confused as to why the men wore no armor and their spears were on the short side. "So how do you fight?" Tzimiskes had asked. The man had not believed the answer.

"Harris, go pick up a couple of those giant squash and place them on one of those stumps at the far side of the field," Sharpe commanded.

"Right away, Sir," the Corporal answered cheerily enough. Harris didn't complain about being given a job better fit for a private. He knew he was still on the Major's personal punishment list detail for joining up with Harper and Hagman to sneak on board the ship as pretend members of the 60th Rifles.

As Harris scurried out, Sharpe asked, "Hagman, how far out do you think that is?"

The old poacher smiled slyly and began slipping his Baker rifle off his shoulder. "That one there, Sir?" he asked, pointing vaguely. "Oh, a mite over two hundred fifty yards, Major."

"I agree," Sharpe replied. "Private Taylor," he next called out, addressing the lone American in the 60th Rifles. "Once Corporal Harris steps aside, blast that gourd to Hell. I want to show Tzimiskes here what a Rifleman can do."

"Yes, Sir," Taylor responded with a smirk, while Hagman frowned and humped his rifle back over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Taylor. Don't miss," Sharpe added, deadly serious. "I want them eager to hire us."

Tzimiskes watched carefully as the American unslung his weapon and went about carefully loading it with powder, patch, and ball, all tapped down tight with the ramrod.

"Should we wait for Captain Palmer?" Lieutenant Minver asked right as Harris placed the big oblong tuber down, and then adjusted its position so its broadside lay perpendicular to the road.

Sharpe sighed and turned to look back down the road. He could see a few red coats at the head of what he imaged to be a long line of stragglers. "Oh, alright. At ease Taylor," he commanded.

The tension mounted. Tzimiskes horse turned nervously catching the mood of the gathered men. Harris, standing far out in the farmer's field, held up his arms as if to ask why the delay. Finally Palmer and the first group of web feet waddled in. "About ta give Zemekis a demonstration, eh Major?" the Marine captain droned obviously.

Sharpe grunted to at least acknowledge he'd heard the junior officer. Then, "Proceed, Taylor"

Up came the rifle. A few sprinkles of powder went into the pan. Taylor checked the wind. The stock lowered ever so slightly, as if aiming right at a man's cock, which accounting for distance would drop the ball right about … Taylor gently squeezed the trigger.

A familiar crack filled Sharpe's ear. The gourd exploded as the heavy ball smashed through it. The Rifles let out a brief cheer. Tzimskes spat and swore to his Phos god. And Sharpe let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Though he shivered a bit inside his tattered old Green Coat, he felt the day turning much warmer.

"Should we show him a volley too, Major?" Frederickson asked.

"No, let's keep a few things hidden up our sleeves, Captain," Sharpe answered. "They're will be more important officers than Tzimiskes to impress later, I'm sure. Rifles, time to march, by God!" he shouted.

Like the veterans they were, his command brought more than a few good natured rumblings, but go they went.


	5. Chapter 5

As dusk settled in, the city Tzimiskes named Imbros at last came into view; and thankfully for the Rifles a city, or at least a large town, it was. The setting sun only struck high upon the four ball topped blue spires that were the only parts of Imbros observable over the gray stone wall that encircled the place. The wall looked sturdy enough, though parts of it had clearly been rebuilt fairly recently, as any of the men who had taken part in one of Lord Wellington's many sieges could a test. Each one of them was glad to see their destination; though while the two companies of Rifles could have kept going most of the night if forced to, the fifty Marines were done in.

"Thought Tzimiskes said the Yezd were on the other side of the sea from here?" Sharpe wondered, taking note of the repaired gaps. "Who the Hell else does Videssos war with?"

"He said their new Emperor conquered the throne. Maybe each other?" Frederickson suggested.

"Bloody marvelous," Sharpe snarled angrily, glad to have something to release the pain rising like floodwaters in his skull against.

"How'd they make a breach without cannon?" Harper muttered.

"Catapults, Sergeant Major," Frederickson responded. "A damn great lot of them."

"Still, without cannon firing back out, it'd be a lot easier to take than Badajoz," Sharpe commented; gaining him knowing nods of agreement from Harper, Harris, and Hagman, who'd all gone through the breach with him against the Crapauds' withering fire.

Their guide rode up to the closed gate and shouted at the shadowy outlines of guards a top it to let them in. A strangely accented Greek came rumbling down with an answer that set Tzimiskes off in a rant that included several usages of "Phos," none of which sounded like prayers to Sharpe's ear. He felt the better for it seeing that side of the knight's personality.

The delay in opening the gate at least allowed the last of Palmer's lagging web feet to catch up even if the sun was fully set by the time it creaked open. When the thick oak gate bound together by iron bands finished swinging wide, two squads of giants carrying torches in one hand and axes in the other tromped out.

"T'is Vikings, these are," Harper gawked.

"That one must be Odin then," Frederickson said, but none too loudly.

The score of men looked nothing like Tzimiskes or any of his outriders, "akrites" he called them. These were all tall men, the shortest a match for Sharpe's own six feet, and big too; the visible parts of their arms and legs that stuck out from surcoats and chainmail looked thick and muscular. In the flickering torch light they appeared fair of skin, not at all like Tzimiskes' olive tone, with mostly blonde or red hair. And at their head was in fact a one-eyed wonder. Even accounting for the helmet, Sharpe guessed him to be several inches taller than Harper and three or four stone heavier.

Odin came to a stop and in a deep, rumbling voice pronounced, "Neilos Tzimiskes."

"Skapti Modolfyios," their guide responded and then blathered on in Greek.

"Ah, there's Tzimiskes boy, Major," Harper pointed out. "Back there waiting with them quill pusher types. What was his name? Proklos?"

His friend's comment took Sharpe by surprise, he'd again been lost in the stabbing pain of his wound. He gave a dutiful smile to cover his distraction and thought hard to remember where he was and what he was doing.

"Somone's got to pay the coin for mercenaries. No wonder they want a look at the goods before they dig into the treasury," Frederickson wryly commented.

"I dare say we don't look as smart as that lot to their eyes," Palmer pointed out.

"Noooo," Sharpe echoed slowly. He decided the situation wouldn't do. "Captain, see to your Marines. Frederickson, assembly your company to his left. Minver assemble to his right. Quickly now." Like the good officers they were, none questioned him, but went to look after their men. In under a minute the gathered clump of soldiers had sorted itself out into a semi-martial formation. "Form double line!" Sharpe roared, setting his head to pound.

His sudden command startled Tzimiskes and the Skapti something or other named giant; both of them stopping in mid conversation.

"Attention!" Feet stomped. Rifle and Musket butts slammed into the ground.

"Marines, fix bayonets! Rifles, swords!" Blades slipped over the ends of muzzles and clicked ominously into place.

"Front rank, kneel!" The ground thudded as eighty men dropped to one knee.

"Present arms!" The butts swept off the ground and snugged tight into the crooks of shoulders.

Sharpe yanked out his heavy cavalry sword and turned stock still at attention. "Sir, the 60th Rifles and his Majesty's Marines reporting for duty, Sir!" Thunder crashed in waves behind the bandage over his forehead. He hoped he wouldn't faint.

A fat man in maroon robes, a narrow silver crown sitting on a bald head, stepped out of the shadows inside the gate. Sharpe heard Tzimiskes say, "Hypasteos Vourtzes" as he sketched a brief bow from the perch of his saddle. The fat man murmured a few things. Tzimiskes face turned stony, but said not a word. Skapti's Odin eye scanned back and forth over the Rifles and Marines once. He shrugged his shoulders, then nodded an affirmative to whatever the question had been.

The fat man's pudgy face scowled a moment. He said something, waved a hand in the air, and turned around to walk back inside the town. The mercenary giants quickly followed. Tzimiskes allowed himself a short grin and called out in Greek.

"They'll take us for now as simple garrison troops, Major," Frederickson translated. "Tzimiskes will show us to our barracks."

* * *

Sharpe didn't remember ordering the men into column, but sure enough they were marching through dark streets, some cobblestone and others dirt. He shivered the whole time, unable to pay attention to the twists and turns Tzimiskes led them through. The one story building they arrived at looked to have seen better days, but it had a mostly intact roof and chimneys at either end. The men had stayed in plenty worse. "Captain Palmer, send some Marines to find water. Lieutenant Minver, your Rifles have to make sure there are enough loos. Captain Frederickson, detail some men to scrounge up whatever food we've left and make a kitchen. The rest of you, clean this sty out. We'll figure out the rest in the morning." When the lads dispersed, he walked inside and found a corner to get out of the way in.

* * *

Sharpe woke to the sound of moaning. Something wet lay over his face, he could barely see. The moaning he distantly realized was his.

* * *

"Sooooo, cold. Cold," he shivered.

"Move him closer to the fire," someone commanded.

Sharpe felt hands lift him and move him. More sticky wetness dribbled down off his brow, threatening to glue his eyes shut again. It smelled horrible. It smelled of death. His stomach revolted. He wretched.

"It'll be alright, Sir," Patrick whispered. "They're getting' a doctor for ya."

"A priest," he barely heard William snort with disgust.

* * *

Something blue hovered over him. Sharpe felt woozy, disjointed, and cold as hell or a Spanish winter in the mountains. He tried to focus, now seeing what might be a hand reaching out for him; above it a thin-faced man with bright, burning eyes was chanting softly. "Blah, blah Phos … blah, blah … Phos blah." Fingers gently touched his forehead. Sharpe screamed in agony, they felt like red hot pokers piercing his brain. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes, battling with the blood and puss crusted to his lashes. His body stiffened and clenched and shook. He bit down hard on his tongue, fearing to unman himself in front of the men.

Calm.

Light.

Peace.

The pain drained out of him like dirty water swirling out of a tub.

"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary," Harper mumbled. He heard others around him gasp, "Magic."

He blinked, and then in irritation raised a hand to swipe once, swipe twice the putrid smelling gunk off his face and forehead. Able now to see, a blue clad, shave headed priest hovered over him as he lay on a blanket. The fire in the eyes of that thin face now appeared banked compared to how brightly they'd glowed before. The man gave him a tired smile. "Blah, blah Phos."

"Phos," Sharpe whispered back to him.

"Do ya see that, just a wee scar, Captain!" Harper expostulated.

"How do you feel, Major?" William asked.

"I'm hungry," he answered in a matter-of-fact voice.


	6. Chapter 6

The following week flew past as Sharpe and the officers worked the men to the bone during the day to set their dilapidated quarters straight and then got them roaring drunk on too sweet wine and too bitter ale each night; all the better to keep them from pondering over long on lost wives, children, comrades, favorite whores, and wherever home was. A few black eyes occurred from the heavy imbibing of spirits, particularly as the Rifles and Marines established the hierarchy of things between them in the barracks. Harper and the not quite as big German sergeant from the 60th Rifles, Rossner, came down hard on the worst troublemakers to ensure things never got truly out of hand. And Captain Frederickson, to his chagrin, found himself the officer 'officially' on duty each night, so that he could always claim, care of his eyepatch, to have never seen any of the fisticuffs that would have earned someone a dozen lashes under true army or navy discipline.

Tzimiskes proved a great help as the men settled in, for Imbros' fat mayor, Vourtzes, barely lifted a pudgy, gold ringed finger for the Rifles and Marines. The Hypasteos begrudgingly paid for the two hundred Haloga, the proper name for the Viking look-alike mercenaries they'd seen that first night, out of his own bureaucratic coffers. Tzimiskes job as the captain of several squadrons of akritai was to patrol the surrounding countryside for local bandits, raiding parties of Videssos' semi-nomadic neighbors to the northeast - the Khatrishers, and actual wild tribesmen – Kharmouth – come off the northern Pardraya plain to plunder anything not nailed down. Apparently, the akritai captain drew funds from a separate bag of coins than the one Vourtzes did, and thankfully he shared what he could to see the newcomers were at least fed. In fact, the barracks the Rifles and Marines found themselves in was an old one formerly used by the akriati from when times were rougher and more squadrons were based at Imbros.

But soon enough Proklos Mouzalon stepped into the role of chief liaison and guide about town because Tzimiskes took it upon himself to be the one to ride to Videssos, the capital city confusingly enough having the same name as the rest of the whole damned empire, to inform the Avtokrator's court of the mysterious appearance of two hundred foreign wizard-warriors. The townfolk of Imbros were slow to warm to the Rifles; not just because they were outlanders with little knowledge of the civilized tongue, but as Sharpe found out later from rumors which told of how they were men created from smoke or Skotos' breath or other mad tales that tried to explain how they seemingly arrived out of thin air. He blamed the other akritai who'd been with Tzimiskes the day they'd been found, though there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Now if the scent of magic or deviltry lingered a bit about Sharpe's men, it positively clung to Sharpe himself, at least in how many of his own men now viewed him. If it wasn't a look of awe or nervous downcast eyes when he came around, then one might surreptitiously make the sign of the cross; and all Sharpe had done was receive the blue clad priest's healing magic. At least none of the men tried to touch the small mark left on his forehead. He'd have had to smack down anyone trying that good and hard.

Harper reassured him that most of the Rifles merely thought it a knacky trick; and, liked to lament how Apsimar, the priest, would've been a hell of a lot more helpful for poor, dead Cooper or Fritz or Enrique or Miguel at Porto or Talavera or Salamance or Vitoria than the doctors who knew only how to bleed or amputate a wounded man. The men happened to know the priest's name because a few had taken to visiting the blue ball topped temples of Imbros to hear the miraculous words of Phos, despite understanding hardly a lick of it. Sharpe suspected they simply went in hopes of seeing another 'show,' a public hanging in reverse if you would.

Once the barracks were in order and the blisters on the web feet's feet mostly healed, Sharpe ordered Captain Palmer to take his Marines on ever lengthening daily marches outside of Imbros. They complained because the Rifles weren't sharing the tedium and discomfort with them, but Palmer was smart enough to see that his men's days of sailing into battle were likely at an end, so they better get used to marching, a lot.

Still wanting to keep the true nature of their rifles and muskets a secret, Sharpe had the men train regularly with just fixed swords and bayonets. The backside of their barracks had an enclosed courtyard and a nearly toppled over stable that once would have been useful when a squadron or two of akritai billeted there. It offered an open enough space for squad on squad mock melees without any prying eyes on them. Sharpe suspected fat Vourtzes had spies less obvious than a Haloga to watch them whenever they went about Imbros.

* * *

"Any luck?" Sharpe asked.

"Some," Frederickson answered, reaching into a pocket and then tossing a small chunk of sulfur on to the table of the officers' modest mess set away as far as could be from the enlisted ranks. "Got this at an apothecary shop for twenty francs. Took the chap long enough to suss what I was asking after. Rain's finally lightening up," he added.

"Well at least we know they got the bloody stuff," Palmer said, trying to sound pleased.

"Yes," Sharpe agreed, one hand fondling a small pouch of saltpetre crystals that the lads had collected while mucking out the old stable. "Looks like we can make gunpowder, but not nearly enough of it." The Rifles had left the captured Crapaud fortress with some extra cartridges, but not nearly enough as far as their commander was concerned: seventy a man before the brief fire fight on the supply road, while the Marines had carried only forty each. The math of the situation looked poor. "One hard fight and we'll be good for nothing."

"We could ask for the stuff in the terms of our contract," Lieutenant Fytch, the very young second in command of the Marines, suggested.

"And give the secret of it to these bastards?" Palmer barked sharply at his teenaged deputy. "They're barbarians, they're not stupid. They'd chuck us out quick as damnit and then where'd we be?"

"They'd still need us to teach'em the right way to fight with ball and powder," Lieutenant Minver pointed out. "Barrels and proper locks won't be easy either."

"Aye, that's true I suppose," Palmer replied grumpily.

"Still gives them the whip hand over us," Sharpe said.

"Not necessarily, Major," Frederickson disagreed. "We could ask for more than just nitre and sulfur. Give them a long list of powders and ground metals and stuff. Oh, I've no doubt a clever King would set his master craftsman to mixing and matching what all, but remember too," the one-eyed captain announced with a grin. "We don't need to ask them for the charcoal. That we can make sneakily enough on the side. And without it …" Sweet William made the sound of a squib firing.

"Then we'd just need a secure shop to mix the proper stuff in. Won't be as good as sound British powder, or even the weak firing Crapaud shit," Sharpe added.

"More like what the Duke of Marlborough used to beat the Frenchies," Captain Palmer interjected.

"Or Henry the Eighth," Frederickson murmured a tad unhappily.

"What about the men?" Minver asked quietly.

"What about the men?" Sharpe asked back.

"Someone's bound to offer a hell of a lot of gold, wine, and quim for a rifle and powder."

"Damn!" Sharpe swore, realizing the blinding truth of the comment. Thank God there wasn't a Hakeswill amongst them, at least in the 60th Rifles for sure. But men were men, low born or high, and rare was the man who couldn't be tempted, even to betray his brothers, if the right price were offered.

* * *

"Mein Gott. It has eine hole," Rossner rumbled, stretching the chainmail shirt far enough out to reveal a fist sized gap over a kidney.

"Mine's rusty. Think it will really protect us?" Minver asked dubiously.

"Aw, ya might get a scratch, Lieutenant. But remember, ya have a shield too and they's only wearing their old green coats, so be careful with that pigsticker of yers," Harper cajoled.

Sharpe swung his sword arm around in a circle, both to limber up and to get a feel for how the old chainmail Proklos had loaned them constricted his movement.

Frederickson had been able to beg a hauberk, axe, and shield from an appropriate sized Haloga for Harper. "You know your ancestors went into battle naked and painted blue, Sergeant Major," Sweet William pointed out.

"The devil you say, that's the bloody Scots, Sir. Less sense than sheep shit, they have," the big Irishman disputed happily.

"Taking off your eye patch, Captain? Only a practice fight today," Sharpe asked Frederickson.

The Captain grinned like a wolf. "Wouldn't want it to accidentally get dirty, Major," he announced. The wig came of next to follow the stained, mildewed eye patch, and lastly he pulled out his two fake teeth. "Musht always wear a hat, liksh a proper Britishh Offishur," he chortled before lifting up the open faced helm and slipping it over his bald head.

Sharpe followed suit and placed a helmet over his own skull. "Let's be about this," he commanded. The other four men each picked up their shield and weapon and headed for the door leading to the courtyard. It was time his Rifles faced an 'enemy' something like what they might meet in this odd, Greek, medieval land.

* * *

Reiter feinted low, then jabbed his rifle out high. Sharpe barely flinched now. He jerked the shield up and the edge caught the bottom of the Rifleman's sword, lifting it too high to threaten Sharpe. The two sergeants and three officers were facing off against their third squad now. The weight of the shield, hauberk, and helm still felt far from natural, but at least they no longer felt odd and clunky, slowing his responses. Minver's blooded sword arm could testify that the chain mail did little to stop the thrusting attack of twenty three inches of steel attached to the end of a Baker Rifle, but once they got the proper hang of it, a thick oak shield did wonders for warding off stabs.

Sharpe brought his heavy cavalry sword around, striking with the flat edge. Reiter had already started to pull back and spying the incoming blow he turned the thick stock of the rifle outward to try and block the blow. Sharpe let him, not wanting to press the attack over much; from the corner of his eye he saw Sanders shifting to slide his sword around the far edge of the shield.

"God save Portugal, Braga!" Harper thundered off to Sharpe's left. "Get off your sorry arse and try and block me next time."

"Sorry, sergeant," the much smaller man replied, scrambling out of the dirt. Patrick was proving to be a bloody terror with his axe. Sharpe worried he'd chop one of the precious Baker's to kindling in his exuberance.

Sharpe kicked his shield out to the side once, twice, knocking Sanders' sword to let the private know he was keeping an eye on him. Reiter jabbed at him again. Sharpe brought his blade up quick and momentarily pinned the end of the rifle barrel to the edge of his shield.

Reiter gave a tug. Sharpe suddenly let go, causing the man to stumble a bit. Sharpe kicked him hard in the shin. Reiter barked appropriately in discomfort from the blow.

Sharpe immediately turned and bull-rushed behind his shield right at Sanders. The man tried to brace for the impact, but got smacked down for his effort. Sharpe decided a shield was a marvelous thing to face against Rifles so long as it didn't need to stop a .60 caliber ball. "Rifles hold!" he commanded.

The clash of blade on blade and blade on shield stopped.

"We don't make a square out of just a single row of men to face a cavalry charge, so I figure you shouldn't have to either against the lot of us playing Richard Lionheart, I want to see …"

"Major Sharpe," a familiar Greek accented voice called out, interrupting him.

Sharpe turned. Neilos Tzimiskes had finally returned after a near two weeks absence. And standing beside him was a man who looked every bit a veteran warrior. Sharpe recognized the unhappy expression on the stranger's face. He'd seen it often enough on Wellesley's when the Viscount was displeased with his troop's performance.

"This is Strategos Nephon Khoumnos. He is …"

Sharpe's limited comprehension of Greek ended there and he couldn't follow along with the rest of what Tzimiskes said, so he looked over at Frederickson.

"The General Khoumnos has come to judge whether we're fit to serve the Avtokrator," the captain translated.

'Bugger,' Sharpe thought.


	7. Chapter 7

Sharpe did what came natural when presented with a superior officer and saluted using the heavy cavalry sword in his hand.

The heavily bearded man appeared to appreciate his automatic instinct and nodded slightly back at him in brief acknowledgement.

"Sergeant Harper, see to the men," Sharpe commanded loud enough for all the Rifles in the courtyard to hear.

"Yes, Major," the large Irishman replied by rote to his superior.

"And make sure they're ready to quick march out of town. This stiff bastard may want a three penny show," Sharpe added more quietly to his friend, who thanks to the exercise against the men was standing nearby. "Captain Frederickson, Lieutenant Minver, with me," he called in a louder voice as he pointedly gestured with the sword for the guests to go back through the door to the barracks. Tzimiskes and his general didn't fuss, but simply turned around and went back inside from where they first came. Sharpe and his two officers quickly tossed aside their shields and helmets, sheathing swords as they followed.

Upon entering, Sharpe saw that another person had joined the pair of natives. This one was a short, chubby man who wore the blue robes of a priest of Phos. All three were slowly walking around the barracks, clearly investigating it. They came to a stop in the corner were Sharpe kept his bunk. Tzimiskes pointed at the Baker Rifle leaning against the wall, Sharpe hadn't needed his to train against the men. The other two promptly bent down to stare at it closely and quickly began mumbling among themselves.

Frederickson quietly pointed at a jug of Imbros' cheap, overly sweet wine sitting by his own bed. Sharpe nodded in agreement.

When the investigation of his rifle appeared to be drawing to a close, he cleared his throat. The trio looked over at him almost guiltily. 'Don't know what ta make of it, do you?' He smiled at them. "Wine?" he offered. They returned grins and started over towards him. "Bring it over, Tzimiskes," he attempted his mangled Videssian. The man understood well enough and so brought the rifle over with him.

William filled and handed out the mugs. When each had one, he pronounced, "To the Avtokrator."

"Gavras!" the two soldiers responded, with the priest adding, "May Phos bless him." Then all three spat into the rushes. Happily, none of them seemed upset that neither Sharpe nor his officers contributed any phlegm to the end of the toast, though Minver did murmur a soft "Phos" to himself.

They all took proper sips and smiled politely at each other, saying nothing. Sharpe wondered who would speak first. The shaved head priest solved that by suddenly blurting, "I smell no blah, blah, magic, blah, blah," as he pointed at the rifle Tzimiskes had leaned against the table.

"He can't detect any magic in the rifle, Major," Frederickson translated what Sharpe had already figured.

Sharpe realized the priest's presence made sense, that the blue robe must be a wizard like Apsimar, who'd healed his festering head wound. Sharpe had later learned from Tzimiskes' deputy Mouzalon that the magic gift was far from common; so it was no wonder that whatever Lords and Generals running the army from Videssos the City had sent one of them to discover the truth of Tzimiskes' claim of fire wielding warriors.

"No," he agreed. "Magic not in rifle, magic in powder," he said in his rudimentary Videssian. And with that Sharpe pulled out a cartridge and tossed it on to the table. The three jerked back a bit in surprise as the thing clacked across the surface before coming to a stop, but they promptly stiffened up to hide whatever nerves they were experiencing. "Who you?" he added at the blue robe

A cheerful smile split the blue robes dark beard, making him look younger than Sharpe had first guessed. "I'm called Nepos. I hold blah, blah, blah."

"He says he holds a chair of sorcery in the Videssian Academy. Like a Don at Oxford or Cambridge. He asks if he can open the cartridge," Frederickson said, decoding the complicated Greek gibberish.

In response, Sharpe picked the paper cartridge up, tore it open with his teeth, and spread the contents out on the table. Tzimiskes looked a trifle unimpressed, while his superior officer Khoumnos appeared outright dubious. Nepos however gazed intently at it and then looked up at Sharpe with large eyes and an inquiring hand. Sharpe gestured back, "Go," he said.

Immediately the priest began incanting something and waving his stubby fingers over the spilled cartridge. The exposed skin on Sharpe's lower forearms and hands began to tingle. Goosebumps broke out on the back of his neck. Some barely perceptible energy was passing out of the priest; the granules of powder and the lead ball started vibrating and shifting about.

"Jesus," Minver murmured.

Nepos stopped his sorcery. A stubby finger dabbed into one of the mounds of powder he had conjured and brought it to his lips. "Skotos stink. θεῖον."

"Sulphur; damnit, he knows," Frederickson whispered, trying to keep the hotness out of his breath.

The bald man delicately touched his tongue to his upper lip several times. "Vιτρων."

"Hell," William swore openly.

Sharpe didn't need any translation to know the clever priest had guessed 'saltpetre.' A sinking sensation struck his belly. The medieval bastards were too clever for the Rifles' own good. Still there were tricks to making powder, let alone stuff good enough for even one of those near useless Congreve rockets.

Nepos next poked at the lead ball with a stubby finger. "Not powder. Blah, blah, magic, blah."

"He asks if the lead is a talisman. Apparently it's not much used by his coven of witches."

Sharpe gave a deadly grin, "Tell him that's the killing talisman and that the powder magic drives the ball faster than the eye can follow at the enemy." William did so.

Tzimiskes nodded his head in agreement while the two newcomers frowned slightly in evident doubt. "Can you show them?" the akritai captain asked.

Frederickson started to interpret but Sharpe had caught the gist of it. "We light powder," he replied in badly fractured Greek.

Tzimiskes grinned. "Your Videssian get much better while I gone."

Nepos gestured impatiently. "Light? Like light of Phos?" the priest queried with some excitement.

Sharpe now frowned. "Fire," he said in Greek. "Oh, explain it to them better for me, William."

"Yes, Major," Frederickson answered and then rattled off in Greek for thirty seconds before he picked up the Baker Rifle, cocked the lock and pulled the trigger. The flint struck and tiny sparks shot out. Frederickson made a boom sound. The Videssians all went, "Oh," in some semblance of understanding.

Sharpe scrapped a bit of the powder from the various mounds into one by side of the table. "Lieutenant, please retrieve a burning ember from the mess fire." Minver grinned wickedly and jumped right up. A few moments later he was back. "Go ahead and light it. Carefully."

The lieutenant slowly lowered the tongs holding the lightly glowing coal to the now not so properly mixed powder on the table. A flash and a pop and a puff of smoke happened in an instant.

Nephon Khoumnos and Nepos eyes widened in surprise, while Tzimiskes smiled in approval at the partial truth of the words he must have passed along in Videssos the city being proven accurate.

"Like see rifle shoot?" Sharpe asked.

All three men nodded vigorously.


	8. Chapter 8

Less than a mile out of Imbros the Rifles came upon Captain Palmer and Lieutenant Fytch leading their fifty Marines back to town.

"Turn your men about Captain, we've a demonstration to make," Sharpe called out.

Stiff lipped, Palmer snapped a salute, "Yes, sir," he replied, then turned to face the Marines. "You heard the Major," he shouted. "Fall in at the back of the column.

The web-foots groaned, land service proving much tougher and more vigorous than ship board life. At least they have better access to whores, Sharpe thought snidely; showing no sympathy for the toughening up process the marines were going through. He did have a smidge for how dull normal duty for a marine must be, having sailed to India, Denmark, Portugal and Spain.

"Snap to! Snap to!" the marine lieutenant screeched with his adolescent voice. "Sergeant Bingley, keep them moving smartly," he ordered the senior enlisted marine, a kettle bellied grey haired man who looked more spent than any of them.

A cruel grin broke out on Harper's face. "Not to worry lads, only a few miles more ta where we can give these highfalutin Videssian sirs a proper show of lead and powder."

More low moans followed.

Sharpe hid his smile poorly while explaining in his limited, broken Greek to the new-come Videssian General that the red coats were marines and not used to marching as the green coat riflemen were.

To the web-foots' luck, the Irishman's words proved less than prophetic and a suitably dense woods turned out to be a little over a mile away. They followed a path into it, one narrower than the road, so the column strung out even further, with the marines still bringing up the rear. When a bit of a widening between the trees appeared, Sharpe brought the ragged procession to a halt.

While the stragglers came up and the growing crowd took on an uneven arc shape around him, Minver directed a few of his men to see about setting up the targets. The closest was only thirty yards or so at the far end of the little lea. The furthest stood at near seventy five yards, where the continuing, slightly wandering path took a hard kink. The nag they had brought along didn't appear to appreciate the seriousness of his situation and once tied up he dropped his head to graze at a scraggily tuff of autumn shriveled grass.

"Hope this works," Sharpe murmured to Frederickson.

His one eyed friend grinned back at him, "There's a reason knights and armor died off."

"They're still bloody cuirassiers, though," he grunted resentfully. A cavalry charge wouldn't bother a battalion unless surprised or its discipline fell apart or the damned Crapauds had artillery waiting to break up the formation. Unfortunately Sharpe didn't have a battalion, just a hundred twenty some odd, admittedly tough, bastards. He and Frederickson had spent many an evening discussing the best way to fight the men in this mad medieval place.

"Captain Palmer, if you please, twenty men to hit the closest target."

"Right, sir," the senior marine snapped smartly. "Sergeant Bingly, two lines, on the double." With a minimum of cursing, the oldest web-foot got his chosen score through the muddle of men and formed up. "Sir!" he at least replied.

"Ten lashes for anyone missing that shield," the captain encouraged in finest naval tradition. "Proceed, Sergeant."

"Load!" The butts of twenty sea service pattern Brown Besses smartly hit the ground, with the musket quickly clutched between knees or upper thighs. Cartridges were quickly yanked out and their tops bitten off. Powder slid down the barrel, promptly followed by the lead ball and the remnants of the paper cartridge. Out came the ramrods to drive everything down. The long slender pieces of iron were slid back down into place alongside each stock. Muskets were brought up waist high and powder dribbled from horns into the pans. Twenty seconds hadn't quite passed, Sharpe thought that barely adequate.

"Cock your locks!" Up came the muskets. "Level!" The web-foots aimed as much as they could with muskets, Bingly giving them an extra half second. "Fire!" Flints flew forward to scrape across the rough surfaced frizzen, sparks shot into pans which ignited with little pops, and twenty Brown Besses spat out fire and lead in near unison.

CRACK!

Stern Nephon Khoumnos and friendly Nepos both jumped at the mini-burst of thunder. The thick oaken Haloga shield disintegrated in a burst of English magic. "Phos!" both men swore, with the little bald priest rattling off several more phrases. The general quickly recovered himself and rushed out to investigate the thoroughly ruptured shield. Nepos had other ideas and went over to the web-foots, asking to see a musket. "Hand it over, Jenkins," Palmer ordered the man receiving the brunt of the priest's enthusiasm.

Tzimiskes, though eyes quite wide, for this was a more powerful demonstration than that which he had seen two weeks earlier, smiled widely. The strangers hadn't disappointed. He could now readily see himself promoted to a position in the City. No more dealing with that fat, greedy toad Hypasteos Vourtzes.

After several minutes and the answering, up to a point, of the Videssians' many questions, it was the turn of twenty of Minver's rifles to perforate a hauberk of chainmail draped over a thick branch fifty yards out; easy range for a Rifle. The chosen men went through the drill. "Aim for the heart!" the Lieutenant cried before yelling "Fire!"

CRACK!

The iron shirt writhed for an instant and then danced into the air, eventually landing in the dirt.

"We go," Sharpe said in simple Greek, pointing towards the path. Khoumnos, Tzimiskes, and Nepos all nodded excitedly. So he began walking. Minver, Frederickson, and Palmer tagged along. All of them interested to see what a ball of lead would do to the close knit rings of iron.

Sharpe picked up the shirt and gave it a dramatic shake to unfold it, small chips of wood dropping to the leaf and pine needle strewn forest floor. Khoumnos stuck a hand out and wiggled three fingers through three closely spaced gaps of varying size.

Nepos pointed at several dark grey streaks discoloring the somewhat rusty rings of the hauberk. "Not all lead balls go through," he commented. This elicited small shrugs from the two warriors. The chain still appeared stressed in those areas, both men could well imagine the pain a man receiving such powerful impacts would feel.

"Sirs, look up at the tree," Frederickson suggested, gesturing at the branch on which the shirt had rested. Many divots and impressions had been hammered into and out of the wood. Holding on to the pierced armor, the small group eventually returned to the larger one. Next up was Frederckson's turn to demonstrate his Rifles' deadliness.

The two loud rounds of gunfire and the subsequent smell of spent powder had greatly agitated the old beast, but he was firmly tied and not going anywhere. The only question was when he would turn his thin body to give William's lads a clean shot at the shield and chainmail covering one flank. The Rifles stood posed at "level" for nearly a minute before their half German, half English officer ordered "Fire!"

Twenty Baker rifles "CRACKed."

The nag jumped and shrieked pitifully once, then dropped to the ground, a thick pool of blood rapidly gathering beneath its slightly quaking form. At their approach, Sharped noted the creature still lived, if only barely. He took out his pistol and quickly put a shot between the old horse's eyes, ending his misery.

Ten rounds had gone at the shield and ten at the chainmail, thus neither had suffered the same degree of damage as the other similar pieces had in the earlier demonstrations. The difference didn't seem to matter much as Tzimiskes and Khoumnos were grinning at each other like two excited little boys. "The Avtokrator will pay you wizards well to fight for him," the general indicated, a comment that brought a small frown to the little blue robed priest. "You know how to make more rifles, magic powder, and talisman shot?"


	9. Chapter 9

Sharpe and his officers spent the evening in Tzimiskes' office at the main akritai barracks negotiating with the general Khoumnos. All the previous long nights debating how best to prepare the men to fight against the Cossack resembling Yezda were now proven well spent. Sweet William did most of the speaking for their side, while Sharpe, Minver, and Palmer sipped the too sweet Videssian wine and followed along as best their weak Greek allowed. Occasionally the general would ask Tzimiskes or the pudgy little wizard-priest Nepos a question.

Yes, the Empire would provide both a location and the materials necessary for the production of more magic powder, talisman shot, and muskets, but not rifles, at least initially. The differences between the Brown Bess and the Baker had been described; and, most importantly, the length of time it took to produce a threaded barrel and a competently trained rifleman explained.

The Videssians had been intrigued by the description of cannons and rockets. Their imaginations could grapple the value of increased range of fire. William, who had been with Sharpe at Adrabos – where Teresa had been murdered and Hakeswill at last ultimately punished for his many sins, had wisely refrained from explaining how iffy the Congreves were to aim. Though the group of officers had already concluded that accuracy might not be required to spook enemy horse unaccustomed to gunpowder explosions on the battlefield. The question they had in turn needed answering was whether the Rifles and Marines could expect to encounter magical based ones in return; thankfully, apparently not.

The lads had enough knowledge among them that Sharpe knew they could forge all that they needed; not quickly at first, surely. But practice would make them better at it. And thankfully, Nepos had not disputed the overlarge list of elements they claimed would be needed. Perhaps out of honor among "magicians" or the simple belief that he could figure out any suspected subterfuge related to the list on his own; the cheery bald priest did have an air of competence about him.

Yes, too, until enough muskets could be produced to train an entire battalion of "fire wielders" to fight in the line of battle, a battalion sized unit of local levies would be assigned come spring to learn to act as the shield and spear to the Rifles' even longer ranged spears. Yet another headache for Sharpe to deal with, no doubt, when the time came. He could well imagine dealing with a Videssian officer who had the low brains and high arrogance of Hypasteos Vourtzes instead of the steady Tzimiskes. That simply seemed to be his luck, or curse, rather, when it came to officers not named Hogan or Lawford or Nairn or, of course, Wellesley.

As far as most of the Rifles and Marines would be concerned, the expected rate of pay proposed by Khoumnos was more than generous based on the prices Sharpe had seen in Imbros. Though William cautioned him to expect Videssos the City to be more dear. Raised mostly as an orphan in Wapping, he bitterly understood the ways of a big city and needed no reminding of any of the brutal lessons he had learned starting at a too young age.

They had landed in a tough situation. And they were surprisingly making the best of it. What if they had "landed" in Yezd or Khatrish or Pardraya or Halogaland and had to fight for their lives from the get go? Still, Sharpe was veteran and cynic enough not to get his hopes up. Situations by his experience were seldom ever quite as dire or as rosy as they seemed at first glimpse. So he'd keep his arse tucked in tight while waiting for the inevitable kick of fate's harsh boot.

* * *

Heavy autumn showers began only a few days after Khoumnos and Nepos departed with the bones of the agreement for their Avtokrator Mavrikios Gavras' approval. Before leaving, the General did abide by the bargain's first point, that being to pry the Hypasteos Vourtzes' fat fingers off of Imbros' coffers in order to provide enough silver and gold for the men's basic necessities. The first thing Sharpe spent their mercenary's dowry on was proper marching boots for Palmer's sore winged web-foots and leather to patch the Rifles own well-worn gear.

Next, he paid to outfit the lot of them with wood swords, practice spears, and overlarge shields in order for Sweet William to teach them the time honored Saxon tradition of how to fight in a shield wall. If they were to integrate themselves into the Avtokrator's army against the Yezd, the men needed to understand how the bastards fought. Half the time, Patrick, Rosner, and a dozen of the largest men were given the roll of Danes, or Halogai, trying to break the wall before the squad standing in line behind the shields could get off three rounds in a minute. The rest of the time a score or more of men were told to run around in front of the shields, whooping like Red Injuns and launching blunted spears, as if they were arrow shooting Yezd.

The last of the coin, other than that which went to their physical sustenance and liquid based morale, provided the clever-most handed with the iron and other materials to try and forge a musket barrel. Sharpe had promised Khoumnos that they could, so they damned well must; turning skills that leaned more toward mending and repairing into outright making.

With the growing rains and resulting increase in mud, the men worked more often in the courtyard behind their fully repaired barracks instead of heading out of the city to march and drill. Sharpe didn't much mind, he preferred staying dry as much as any of his lads. He did hide a smile each time he chanced seeing Tzmiskes or his deputy Proklos Mouzalon head out into the muck with a band of mounted akritai. Unlike Lord Wellesley and his unnaturally avid devotion to using the green coats, the Videssions sent out their cavalry regardless of the weather to patrol, scout, and gather information.

A typical rainy day found Hagman's melancholy yet reassuring voice singing a slew of Cheshire folk songs from beneath an overhang as Rifles and Marines went about their work. The oldest man in the unit sang of grain fields, forested ridges, the Mersey, country lasses, and cattle raids. The lyrics were invariably accompanied by one of Frederickson's Germans on what passed for a local guitar, the stamping of feet, the beating of wood swords against shields, and the metallic hammering from the makeshift smithy set up in the rickety stables.

Eventually the ever colder rains turned into the year's first snowstorm. And by the time nothing more than a few drifts of it remained, the lost soldiers from Lord Wellesley's invasion of southern France had been in Imbros two months and five of the men had killed themselves from despair of ever returning home. Thankfully, the daily routine which was heading towards deadly monotony, no matter how hard the officers and Harper and Rossner urged them on, was broken up by the arrival of a messenger from the Avtokrator's own Imperial Guard: "Time to march, by Phos!"

* * *

The next morning, Tzmiskes and Proklos met them at the southern gate of Imbros to bid them farewell. The few Halogi on duty watched their departure with the typical stoic indifference the Rifles had come to expect from the big Vikings. Of bloated Hypasteos Vourtzes, there was no sign. Little surprise that; though Skapti Modolfyios was atop the town's wall staring intently at them with his one eye. When Sharpe gave the giant Odin a salute, the warrior responded with an acknowledging bob of his stern face.

Gently rolling, but cold and muddy, countryside greeted them upon leaving. Sharpe and the 60th Rifles had marched through much worse conditions in Spain. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the Marines. Palmer and the web-foots were game, and the training, if simple long distance marches can rightly be called training, around Imbros had helped; but it wasn't enough. Distance and near freezing temperatures and snow drifts slowed and sapped the Marines' strength. And the shortening daylight hours of Autumn weren't any aid either for putting long miles in. The going was slow; yet this time Sharpe insisted everyone must stay together the whole time.

It snowed lightly several times during the journey, but thankfully nothing heavy; nor much in the way of rain or sleet. Twice the party of hundred and seventy marching men and two mounted Videssian guides were able to find shelter at night in a village; though the welcome, until silver was shown and handed over, was as frigid as the air. Under Harper's and Rossner's threatening eyes the lads kept their cocks dry around the local women folk. The other eight nights it took the motley group to near Videssos, as it started to darken, they would simply find a place off the road to sleep that was out of the wind and had enough ready kindling and logs that fires could be kept.

On the eleventh day out of Imbros, they came out of the long line of low hills and descended towards the glimpse of a cold, dark sea. On a narrow coastal plain, with the scent of salt in the wind, the road intersected another. Their lead guide, from a top his horse, pointed south down a much wider road and announced, "The 'City' is a day's march that way. You lot will go the other direction."

"How far?" Sharpe asked.

"We should be there as Phos' light departs; if you don't lag," that last bit aimed at the red coated marines.

"So long as there's a warm bed and something hot to sip when we arrive, I'll be happy, sir," Harper declared.

Sharpe nodded in thoughtful agreement. Khoumnos had said he'd find them some place remote to begin work on their "magic". That hadn't suggested cushy quarters like the Horse Guard's barracks near Saint James. Still, if they were only a day and half's march, assuming the web-foots could make it, away from Videssos the City, how remote could it be?

* * *

Turning North, the road rose and eased a bit back inland as the coast itself gave away from easy egresses to the shore to outright cliffs. As the sun started to dip and they approached a sizeable wooded area, a ragged looking man slouched on horseback came out of a smallish, rundown looking barn.

With no sign of fear the middle-aged, sun weathered man stopped his nag in the middle of the road. "Are you the foreigners?" he challenged boldly.

"I am the spatharios Nikephoros," the lead guide declared haughtily, as he reached into the leather bag hanging from his saddle. "Here is the Sebastokrator's writ for these Enklish mercenaries." Out came a scroll with a mark of some sort made into the wax sealing it shut.

"Give it to the Lady. I'm just her shepard," the man answered bluntly, unimpressed by the junior officer's bluster. He probably couldn't read the scroll even if he cared to, Sharpe decided. "This way," he commanded and turned the nag to head off towards the coast without a look to see if he was followed or not.

"We're almost there, lads," Sharpe encouraged; though he got no response from the cold, tired men. On they trod through various harvested, manured, fallow, and plowed for winter wheat fields. The path was rutted by the passage of years' worth of farm carts; and not more than a foot wider either side.

At last the sea came again into view, with a fairly substantial, curved headland jutting out into it.

"That should do, I suppose," laughed William.

A modest village in support of a decent sized manor sat on the raised peninsula. A simple log and blocked stone wall cut the place off from the mainland. And at the bottom of the cliff on the inside of the curve a pier and a half dozen small fishing ships could be seen.

It was remote in its own way, Sharpe supposed. "We've stayed in worse," he gruffly agreed. "Now let's see who this Lady is." That was one thing he definitely hadn't considered during the entire march, that he might have to answer to a woman.


End file.
